


The National Gallery

by sunryder



Category: Russian Translation Available - Fandom, Sherlock (TV), White Collar
Genre: Crossover, Drabble, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 05:15:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/896214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunryder/pseuds/sunryder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Neal met Sherlock. </p>
<p>(Come on, you know that at some point Neal had to have stolen something that Sherlock got called in to investigate.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The National Gallery

**Author's Note:**

> This work just happens to fill my Trope Bingo square for holidayfic. (A very loose tether to a holiday fic, but still, it qualifies.)
> 
> Russian translation now available [HERE](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8354548)

“I have an offer for you.”

 

Neal didn’t bother pretending to be surprised. The man had paused just inside the gallery’s doorway and glowered around the room until his eyes lit upon Neal. He’d had the common sense to at least take the long way through the room, pausing before every third painting until he started to vibrate with impatience and pressed on.

 

The approach suited the man. Nothing about him was subtle, from his sharp cheekbones, to the tangled mess of curls, to the sweep of his Belstaff coat; everything about him shouted, “Look at me and realize just how inferior you are.” Really, if he’d tried to sneak he would’ve drawn more attention than he managed to just by existing. People like him couldn’t sneak. Neal should know.

 

Neal gave the Brit a bright and wholly innocent grin, as though he thought the man was propositioning him. The man was too posh to do anything so plebeian as snort, so he scoffed instead. “Don’t be obtuse.”

 

“You walk up to me and tell me you’ve got an offer I can’t refuse, and I’m supposed to think that’s _not_ you hitting on me?”

 

“Considering that you stole a painting from this gallery two days ago there’s at least one other way to interpret it.”

 

If the guy had seemed like he was playing a hunch, Neal would’ve laughed him off and called it a terrible pickup line. But he sounded like he knew for sure. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

“I have no intention of turning you over to MI5,” the man declared, a little too loudly for Neal’s comfort.

 

Neal gave a genial smile to the nearby couple who looked over at the loud conversation and hissed back, “I didn’t steal any painting.”

 

“ _Lake Keitele_ by Akseli Gallen-Kallela, painted 1905, stolen from this museum two days ago and replaced by a near-perfect forgery. A forgery meant to go undetected until the painting’s routine inspection in six months. By which time you would have sold the original and washed the money you gained from the transaction.” The man paused, and cocked his head like he was staring at Neal through a magnifying glass. “No, you would have kept it. The painting was an interesting choice considering that you had to pass several Degases, Seurats, Cézannes, Gaughines, van Goghes, and a Picasso in order to reach it. You chose the painting because you are fond of it, not for its external value.”

 

Neal fought the urge to run like hell. “How do you know that?”

 

“I know you began as an artist and stumbled upon a natural talent for fraud. I know you choose to steal extraordinary things because they would be better loved in your care than with their actual owners. And I know that you fear you’re getting distracted from the love of beauty by thoughts of money, quite correctly I’m afraid.”

 

Neal swallowed, and smoothed out his voice as much as he could. “What’s your offer?”

 

“You return the painting and I let you go.”

 

The man looked dead serious. “Why would you do that?”

 

“It was elegant.” He shrugged. “You should be rewarded.”

 

“But not with keeping the painting?” Neal grinned in disbelief.

 

The man tucked his hands at the small of his back and started for the door, taking Neal’s question as agreement. “Having met you I wouldn’t mind,” he continued, forcing Neal to keep up if he wanted to hear. “However, I was promised certain things if I returned the painting unscathed.”

 

“Money?”

 

The man rolled his eyes, “Don’t be stupid. I won’t have to attend Christmas dinner.”

 

Neal actually crashed to a stop at that one. “What?”

 

The man twisted on the museum’s steps, his black coat billowing out around him. “The painting is a favorite of Mummy’s. She agreed to give me a pass for the holidays if I found it for her.” Neal stared at the man, letting the silence drag out between them before he shrugged. “This counts as her Christmas present.”  


End file.
